


The Bloody Revenge of Jefferson Hope

by qikiqtarjuaq



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Without A Clue
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qikiqtarjuaq/pseuds/qikiqtarjuaq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left behind to his own devices while Watson is away for a case, Holmes decides to give his own unique spin to his adventures with Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Letter from Reginald Kincaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Castiron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiron/gifts).



Dear Reader,

If you are reading this, then John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are dead. In seeking out the clues I've placed leading to this letter, you've shown curiosity, persistence and dedication to the art of deduction. It is these traits that I hope will keep you from immediately dismissing the outlandish claims I am about to make.

First, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Reginald Kincaid, and I am an actor. For most of my career, I played minor but crucial roles such as the twelfth rioter in _Arkwright's Wife_ , or the role of the butler in _Charity_ , until I landed the lead in the Orpheum Theatre's production of _Shadow of Death_. Unfortunately, despite my many successes, I was never a darling of the critics. Too over-the-top, they accused me! Not convincing enough! Bah, critics! If only they knew of my greatest performance, the one that had every man and woman in London fooled. I speak, of course, of my role as Sherlock Holmes.

And here we come to the shocking revelation. The great detective is a fraud, a fictional creation, his entire life an elaborate play set on the very streets of London themselves. I never fully grasped the concept of the world as a stage until that fateful day when I met Watson, and left behind the life of Reginald Kincaid to become Sherlock Holmes.

No doubt you are skeptical of this claim. What of all the crimes he solved? Why did Dr. Watson go along with the charade? The answer to that is so simple that I'm sure it is occurring to you even now. The genius hiding in plain sight was of course the author of the stories himself: John Hamish Watson.

There will be those who doubt the truth of my claims, those who call into question my motivations, and those who refuse to believe. The first I can refute by asking them to read the stories enclosed here, and see from them details that only someone intimately involved with the cases could know.

As for my motivations, they are entirely unselfish. I don't hope to replicate the clever turns of logic that have become the cornerstone of the Sherlock Holmes stories, but I do I hope that these stories will shine a deserving spotlight on someone who has been robbed of his rightful credit for far too long.

And finally, for those who refuse to believe that someone they admired could be a fraud, I offer my understanding and my sincerest apologies. I am a man of many faults and vices, and knowing them can only disappoint those who have held me in such high esteem. You may come away from this endeavor despising the man that I am. I can't say that I would blame you. In my darkest hour, when I believed Watson to be dead, I wondered at the injustice that would take such a great man away while leaving me behind to flounder hopelessly against criminals I have not the wits nor the courage to fight.

Please believe that I do not do this to malign a public figure that has become so loved in this great city. Rather, I do this purely out of love for the best and wisest man I have ever known.

Now, without further ado, I invite you to read the story of our first case together. It was not, in fact, the highly publicized Pakistan murder case. Rather, it is a gruesome tale I will call _The Bloody Revenge of Jefferson Hope_.

Signed,

\- Reginald Sherlock Holmes Kincaid


	2. Revelations

"The Bloody Revenge of Jefferson Hope? Holmes, you just gave away the ending to the case in your title!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, it occurred to Watson that among the many things that had gone wrong since his departure from Baker Street, this was likely the least of the offenses. For one, his meticulously indexed case notes had not only been relocated from his rooms to Holmes', but they were now in a state of complete disarray. Then there were the bullet holes in the wall. And finally, there was the curiously morbid letter Holmes had obviously intended for people to read after their deaths. He rubbed at his temples as he felt the onset of a headache. Well, it had to happen sooner or later. He had finally been driven mad by Sherlock Holmes.

"Watson, you're back!"

"There you are, Holmes!"

"Oh. And you've solved the intricate series of puzzles I’ve set up to guard my latest project." Holmes beamed at him. "Not that any puzzle could be a match for you."

Watson looked down at the ornately decorated chest with the key to its lock still attached to its handle, then back up at the man the people of London considered one of the greatest detectives of all time.

"I'm sorry, I must have missed the puzzle aspect of this particular discovery. All this was found in the middle of your room, in an unlocked chest."

Holmes looked thoughtful. "You know, now that you mention it, having my deviously difficult series of clues lead to the middle of my room was perhaps an ill-conceived idea."

"Well, don't strain that brain of yours too much trying to think of a better hiding place. Care to explain to me what this is about?" Watson gestured towards the letter in his hand. "Beyond your morbid obsession with death since our last encounter with Moriarty, I mean."

"I rather thought the letter was self-explanatory."

"Yes, of course. And I'm not trying to sound ungrateful, Holmes, but I just can't understand what would possess you to do this. Other than a desire to be raised from the dead by Mr. Greenhough so that he can kill you again for ruining his most profitable franchise."

Watson's words were light, but he couldn't quite shrug off a growing suspicion that this wasn't just another boneheaded whimsy that Holmes enjoyed engaging in when he was bored. "You've never concerned yourself with the matter of credit before. What has changed?"

Holmes shrugged casually in a completely transparent and failed attempt to look nonchalant. "I suppose it all started when I decided to learn to apply your methods of deduction."

"Ah. Yes. That's coming along nicely, I presume?" Watson cleared out a path towards the sofa and sat himself down. It suddenly made sense. Having had first-hand experience with a great number of Holmes' botched attempts at logic, it wouldn't surprise Watson if the ridiculous man had somehow decided to become a chronicler Watson's life based on the the position of his violin bow the last time he played.

"Absolutely." Holmes stood up a bit straighter. "Take, for example, your progress in your current case."

Watson couldn't help a fond smile. "Oh? And what can you make of it?"

At that, Holmes' eyes lit up and he produced a magnifying glass from his pockets, which he pressed against Watson's hands, shirt, and finally, his face.

"Holmes, is this really necessary?" protested Watson, pushing the other man off. "If you need to be that close to make your observations, might I recommend that you see a doctor about your obviously failing eye sight?"

Holmes sniffed indignantly as he took a seat next to Watson. "The devil is in the details, Watson! One can never look too closely."

"Unless you miss the forest for the trees. But enough! Why don't you go ahead and tell me what you've observed and what you've concluded?"

"Well, there is the obvious conclusion I can draw from your return. You've found Lady Carfax or you would still be travelling abroad, no doubt enjoying the scenery and the pretty women of France without me."

Watson rolled his eyes. While he felt his life richer for their growing friendship, it was becoming more and more difficult to leave Holmes behind when a case called for it. "How many times do I have to tell you? This wasn't a vacation, and I needed you to stay home so the criminals would let their guards down."

Holmes continued to sulk.

"Come now. Don't be upset, old boy. What if I promised to take an easy case in the country of your choice next time?"

Holmes looked intrigued.

"And allowed you to have a hand at solving it?"

"We shall let the matter drop then," Holmes announced, satisfied. "Now, let's see... where was I? Ah, yes. Lady Carfax was most likely found in France as that was the last place I received a wire from you. You were there both to visit her maid and to follow up on reports of a bearded man who had caused alarm among her acquaintances. How am I doing?"

"Go on. I won't bias you before you reach your final conclusion."

"Fine. Now, if you found the her ladyship in France, then it's nigh impossible that neither the maid nor the bearded man were innocent in her disappearance, so it must be one of them! From my earlier examination on the state of your clothing and the tiny scuff mark on your cheek, I can conclude that you have been in a fight. And since I don't think you are ungentlemanly enough to engage in violence against a poor maid, the culprit must have been the bearded man!"

"That, my dear Holmes, was a singularly... consistent line of deduction."

"Ha! I win!"

"I don't believe there was even one piece of information that you've managed to interpret correctly."

"What? But... how can that be?" Holmes' face fell.

"You made the cardinal mistake of theorizing first, then taking only the data that fit your theories. We must be careful to check our assumptions and theories against available evidence, or we shouldn't make any conclusions at all."

"Hmph. I suppose you're about to show me how you could have done better in my place?"

"Indeed I will. Take, for instance, your first conclusion: that Lady Carfax was found. I am flattered by your faith in me, but I must inform you that you are incorrect on that count."

"By Gods, then why are you sitting here instead of going out to find her? She can't possibly be in London?"

"And why not? Just because the search started elsewhere does not make it any more or less likely that it could end back at home."

"I suppose that's true. And don't answer my first question! You wouldn't sit idly while a woman's life was in danger unless you had no choice. Waiting to hear from your irregulars?"

"Quite right! Well done. I am awaiting both official word from Scotland Yard and from Wiggins on a line of search regarding one Henry Peters, better known as Holy Peters. You'll recall that I asked you to wire a hotel in Baden regarding Dr. Schlessinger's left ear shortly after I left for France?"

"Yes, I remember now! They told me that his left ear was jagged or torn. Are you saying that he is the culprit? And you've identified him by his ear?"

"Right again! He's a well-known rascal from Australia who preys on young ladies. A vicious, amoral man - he lost his earlobe in a bar fight, which is why I asked for a description. I believe that he and his wife are in London now, and that they've confined Lady Carfax somewhere in the city."

"But what of the scuff marks and the scratches on your shirt? Surely I was right about you engaging in a fight in France?"

"I did have a minor altercation with one Philip Green, who is the bearded man, by the way. But it was nothing more than a misunderstanding. He is here in London now, should I have need of his help. He is a former admirer of Lady Carfax and is most keen to help resolve the matter of her kidnapping."

"I could have sworn he'd be the guilty one," grumbled Holmes.

"Cheer up, Holmes. Your grasp of logic is improving at least. You lack only the extensive knowledge I have of forensics and crime."

"If you are suggesting that I read one of your horrible medical books --"

"Not to worry. I'm not that cruel. But seeing as how you've stolen my case notes already, it probably wouldn't hurt for you to brush up on some of the more notorious criminals still at large." Watson paused. "Which brings us back to my original question, actually. How on earth did you come to the conclusion that you should write out the truthf about our cases?"

"I suppose I've just been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"A bit of a dangerous pasttime for you."

"Yes, yes. I know that you think I am a bit lacking when it comes to matters of the brain, but I personally think I make up for it with a keener insight into the hidden depths of the human mind. I couldn't be the great actor that I am without that essential skill."

Watson raised an eyebrow but let the comment pass.

"And I've been doing a bit of reading, too. The stories you publish about us. They're quite illuminating when examined with a critical eye. For example, Sherlock Holmes is actually nothing more than a fictional representation of _you_."

"A most worthy insight."

"So isn't it interesting, then, that the Holmes in your story is shown as someone who flourishes under praise, yet is unwilling to openly seek it out himself? In fact, one of the reasons he and the Watson in your stories began to work together so closely is because Watson offers both praise, and credit where it is due."

"All right," conceded Watson. "There was a time I was bitter over the attention you garnered, but that's all in the past now."

"Then I continued to think. And still one more question continues to plague me. If you are actually meant to be Sherlock Holmes in your stories, then who does John Watson represent? He's certainly nothing like _me_."

"Well, I did sneak in a line about your experience with women over three continents as something of a homage to your penchant for every pretty woman who has crossed our paths," said Watson wryly. "I can't say that description would ever fit my own solitary lifestyle."

"That's exactly it! I've figured out exactly what purpose he serves in your stories."

"As the narrator?" Watson offered uneasily. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about where this train of thought was going.

"He is the friend you wish I could be for you." There was a long pause before Holmes added in a lower voice: "He is the friend you deserve."

For a moment, Watson could only stare. Then, he carefully placed a hand on Holmes' shoulder. "Holmes," he spoke firmly, "That statement is categorically untrue. I promise you."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

Immediately, different courses of action presented themselves and he discarded each with ruthless efficiency until he settled on one most likely to placate the other man. Then he saw the plaintive look on Holmes' face and knew that he owed at least the truth to his friend.

"You know, I truly meant it when I said that thinking was a dangerous pasttime for you. You are just clever enough to make plausible connections based on the evidence in front of you, but you let your emotions and biases cloud your judgement."

"Listen carefully, because I will not be repeating these words anywhere else," Watson continued after taking a deep breath. "Now, here is the truth: I can be a difficult, exacting man. Sentiment is a luxury I cannot afford when I am most in need of it. I am helplessly in thrall of the intoxicating rush that comes from solving a case, yet in chasing the solution, I make myself more machine than man."

All this he said in a rush, fearful that if he stopped, he'd give in to his instincts to retreat from this line of conversation. "Can you understand then, why I chose to give my namesake all the qualities I do not allow myself to have? It is the oldest of writerly vices, my dear friend. Wish fulfilment, pure and simple."

"Oh."

"Yes. Quite." If the situation weren't so unbelievably awkward, Watson would have taken great joy in being able to render his chatterbox of a friend speechless. As it was, however, he wondered if he shouldn't have just told him that the Watson in the stories was based on Mrs. Hudson. Or Wiggins.

"Curse it all," he muttered, breaking the silence. "Waiting on someone else to move a case along always drives me to madness!"

"I propose we take our minds off this case--" started Holmes.

"I'm not going drinking with you."

"By reading my book? By reading my book. That was completely what I planned to suggest all along. It is a story about you, after all. It'll be fun of talk about old times."

"I suppose it's better than nothing," relented Watson. "Though why you made a story out of that case is beyond me. It wasn't a very difficult one nor entirely compelling."

"Oh, but therein lies the beauty of starting off with that one! I don't have to wrack my brains trying to understand your thought process. And while _you_ may not find it compelling, I think it will resonate very strongly with our more sentimental readers."


	3. The Role of a Lifetime

It was the day after the first and final performance of the _Shadow of Death_ at the Orpheum Theatre, and to mourn the early death of my first role as a leading man, I decided to indulge in a good spot of drinking at the Criterion Bar. Well, I say first leading role. But only because the less said about a certain performance of _King Lear_ , the better. Still, things had never looked so bleak for my career. Steady work had begun to dry up in favour of fresh young faces, and I was confronted with the unfortunate truth that I could not recover from bad publicity as well as I could when I was a young man.

"Kincaid? Reginald Kincaid? Is that you?"

"Stamford. What a pleasure to see you," I said through gritted teeth. "Come all the way to the Criterion now to reject me for a role?"

Oh, it was a petty reaction, no doubt. The man was only doing his job, which was to weed through the throngs of actors competing for a sought-after role. Still. We actors can be fragile creatures when it came to our egos, and I was in a state of mind to be petty about all the missed opportunities and professional slights that had been foisted upon me during my career.

To his credit, Stamford did not bat an eye at my rudeness. "That was years ago, Reginald. And as I said, I never believed you to be lacking the talent - only the motivation and the right part. I have a good instinct about these things."

"Of course, of course. Care for a drink, then?" I offered, mostly because I did not want to be out-done by his too-calm veneer of politeness.

"Yes, please. Thank you. So, what have you been up to?"

"Looking for a part, as all actors do," I replied. "It's getting impossible to make a decent living in this city as an actor these days."

"Ah, I was hoping you would say so. I believe I have something of an interesting offer for you. What would you say if I told you that there is a role I am casting for which would provide you with long-term employment for the foreseeable future, as long as you agreed to an unusual set of conditions?"

I laughed. "I would tell you that you're an insane. No one can guarantee constant, long-term employment to any single actor, unless they were running the theatre themselves. You're not offering me a free theatre, are you? I've always had a soft spot for the Adelphi Theatre."

"Nothing quite as costly as that, I'm afraid. But it has the potential to be very glamorous indeed."

"You need not say more, Stamford. If you seek a high-calibre actor with extensive experience dealing with adoring crowds, then I am your man."

"Don't be too quick to accept, Reginald. There are some unusual stipulations to this role."

"Then don't hold back. Let me have it. What can possibly be so terrible about this job?"

"First, you must agree to absolute secrecy. Any slip of the truth, and your contract is effectively terminated."

"Easily agreed."

"Good. Then this is the offer: if you accept this role, then you will cease to be Reginald Kincaid. Henceforth, you shall be known as Sherlock Holmes, and you will work under the employ of one Dr. John Watson. You will say nothing that is outside of the scripts provided to you at each scene, you will do nothing without Dr. Watson's approval, and you must maintain the facade at all times when in public. For compensation, you will be given free room and board at Dr. Watson's flat in Baker Street, as well as a small salary each week."

I stared at Stamford. "This seems less like acting to me than fraud. There isn't some shady business behind this, is there?"

"If you want the good doctor's reasoning for this charade, you are free to ask him yourself. However, I can assure you that there is nothing criminal going on. He simply needs a man who is willing to give up his current identity to resume a new one."

I've often wondered how different things would be if I had told Stamford off for being a madman on that day. Fortunately for Stamford, and looking back, fortunately for myself as well, I decided to at least hear this John Watson out.

We quickly called a cab and made our way over to a place known as the Diogenes Club. Stamford gave me further instructions on the ride over.

"Take care to observe the rules of this club carefully, Reginald. You must avoid all eye contact, and you must not speak until you are given the go-ahead."

It seemed to me that matters were quickly growing more and more absurd, but having very little to lose, I kept quiet and nodded.

Without the ambience of noise and conversation, the Diogenes Club was an eerie place. The place was quite a bit smaller than I imagined. Its main hallway led directly to what appeared to be a reading room, where men with blank faces studiously avoided each other while reading their periodicals and books. With a gentle nudge at my elbows, Stamford quickly ushered me into a small chamber nearby.

"This is the Strangers' Room," explained Stamford once we entered and closed the door behind us. "It is the only room in the club where conversation is permitted."

The first thing I noticed about John Watson were his eyes. He was a small, impeccably dressed man who gave all the appearances of a casually relaxed gentleman enjoying his evening reading. Yet his eyes, sharp and bright, darted from behind the newspaper to look me over and for a moment, I was rooted in place. It was the gaze of someone who was no stranger to digging out secrets, and every gamblers' instinct I had told me never to play cards against this man.

Oblivious to my discomfort, Stamford pulled me next to him and began the introductions. "Dr. John Watson, allow me to introduce you to Reginald Kincaid, the man who will become the legendary Sherlock Holmes."

Watson rose and shook my hands briskly. "How do you do, Mr. Kincaid. Tell me, as a compulsive gambler, an alcoholic and an incurable womanizer, do you think yourself capable of putting this behind you to maintain a facade of a respectable gentleman who is deeply unemotional and highly intelligent?"

How long I stood there slack-jawed, I could not recall. Finally, I spluttered: "I beg your pardon!"

Ignoring my indignant protests, Watson strode over next to Stamford and muttered: "This is the man you chose for the role? I could not think of anyone less suited to become the person I need Sherlock Holmes to be."

"Now see here! I haven't the faintest clue how you came to find out so much about me, and quite frankly, I don't care. Nevertheless, I can't remember the last time an actor was required to share the same attributes as the character he plays. London would be in trouble with all the Macbeths and Claudiuses running around."

"Mr. Kincaid, this is no ordinary role. You are required to keep in character at all times in public. I, and all your acquaintances shall henceforth refer to you as Sherlock Holmes. And if that is the case, I can't have you drinking and making a fool out of yourself, destroying his well-earned reputation."

I carefully considered the benefits of steady employment against the prospect of giving up drinking and gambling. "I suppose it's too late to change this Holmes character so that he's a fan of the occasional drink or two?"

Watson sank down in his seat and buried his face in his hands. "Stamford, this cannot possibly be the best that you can do."

"And who were you expecting me to find for this rotten business, Dr. Watson? Henry Irving?" Stamford barked out a short laugh. "Every actor who's anyone in this town would be too recognizable to suddenly become a new person, nor would they be desperate enough to take your offer. He's the best of a bad lot, I promise you."

There was probably a time when pride would have had me out of the door at that blatant display of disrespect. However, when Watson looked at me with tired, resigned eyes and asked: "Well?" I found myself mirroring his expression of dismay and nodding.

"You have yourself a deal, Dr. Watson. Though you'll have to explain to me why you desperately need someone to play this Sherlock Holmes fellow. He sounds like the sort of dreadful bore no one would pay to see in a theatre."


	4. Sherlock Holmes and His Limits

The first order of business after I moved into Baker Street was settling into my new identity. Watson's brother, Michael, took care of all the legalities. Apparently, he was some sort of minor government bureaucrat who had just the right sort of contacts to get this done.

It was then Watson's idea that to make sure I respond naturally to the name that he and all our acquaintances call me Holmes, even when we are out of the public eye. So on that day, Reginald Kincaid was no more, and I became Sherlock Holmes.

As Shakespeare once said, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." So for my part, I took to my new name with ease. The next part, unfortunately, was not so easy.

"Holmes, you cannot tell me that you know nothing about our solar system."

"I just don't see how it matters. It doesn't help me as an actor, and I can't see its relevance to a detective either."

"But it's common knowledge! Sherlock Holmes can't be an intellectual giant and not know the simple fact that the earth revolves around the sun!"

"But what are the chances someone would even think to ask me something like that? I won't have to pass a test every time I go to a crime scene, will I?"

"We're doomed. Absolutely doomed, unless I pull out a miracle," said Watson, as he began to scribble furiously on a piece of paper.

"Say, what are you writing there, Watson?"

"Just some character notes for my next book."

"How delightful," I said as I hovered over his shoulder curiously. After having read his previous books to help get into character, I had always been of the opinion that this Holmes fellow he wrote about was something of a dullard. Any spark of personality he could add based on me could only improve the character. "Let me see here... 'Sherlock Holmes -- his limits'? Hmm. Interesting. Yes, flaws always make a character more sympathetic."

I continued to read.

1\. Knowledge of Literature. -- Nil  
2\. Philosophy. -- Nil.   
3\. Astronomy. -- Nil.   
4\. Politics. -- Feeble.

"Feeble? No knowledge of literature? Now, Watson, you are simply being unkind," I protested. "And for your information, I am very well-versed in literature. I would have to be as an actor."

"Oh yes, I know," said Watson, waving off my protests. "But I am not, as I have very little interest in these things, and I can hardly be bothered to write a character who is familiar with it."

"Wonderful. So you've decided to turn Holmes into an ignoramus."

"If the shoe fits..."

"Now see here, Watson. If we are to work together, then the very least you could do is be civil towards me. I will not tolerate these snide insults."

"Why should I? You've shown no indication of following the letter of our agreement. Since you've moved in, I've counted at least seven occasions in which you've left the flat to drink yourself stupid and one memorable occasion in which you drank so much you bedded an overweight woman of fifty who had five of her teeth missing."

"How on earth could you... Watson! Have you been spying on me?"

"I hardly need to. You think yourself clever when you sneak off to drink while I am working, but I can tell by the mud you track into the flat when you've passed by a specific garden on your way to the bar. There are always added scuff marks on our locks when you return as well. A drunkard's hands are too shaky to perform such a simple feat." Watson looked at me with a sort of condescending sympathy. "And as for the last deduction, you have not continued your patronage at the Criterion since last week, when you returned with shards of glass on the inside of your trouser legs, uneven teeth marks on your neck, and a black eye. Clearly, as you are a creature of habit, you must have been forcibly ejected and presumably banned from the premises. Thus, I concluded that you must have been caught in a compromising position, most likely with the bartender's wife, who fits the physical description I just gave you."

"Watson. You have the manners of a buffoon."

"This is your own doing, Holmes. I have tried to get through you as a gentleman, but met with limited success. So I tell you this: if you are to continue your current behaviour, you will at least learn to be more discreet. As long as I am able to deduce your actions, I will continue to berate you for them in as humiliating a manner as possible. Shall I continue with your bad luck at the racetracks yesterday?"

I did not dignify him with a response, but silently, I began to plot. In hindsight, I think Watson's intentions were to scare me off from misbehaving altogether. However, I simply took it as a challenge to take down his ego a few notches.

I started by washing my clothing meticulously before he returned home. He pointed out the remarkable coincidence of the cleanliness of my clothing with the days I went drinking. I began to do my laundry daily. He simply pointed out the state of disarray of my rooms and the hallways when I returned drunk. I carried on for a good month washing my clothes and cleaning the flat daily until I caught Watson and Mrs. Hudson giggling over how much easier life was now that I was doing so much of the chores.

Finally, perhaps taking pity on me, Watson and I struck a deal that allowed me to drink on the busiest days of the week in a small bar at the outskirts of the city, provided I blended in and did not use the name of Sherlock Holmes. In return, I could either have a small sum of my salary deducted or choose to help with the cleaning of the flat.


	5. Rache

The next test came after four months of living together, during which Watson allowed me to solve minor cases for a variety of clientelle, usually things of small consequence such as missing jewellery or straying husbands. We devised a quick system of note passing, disguised as Watson transcribing the client's words and showing them to me for perusal. And so after four months of what was deemed detective training, I opened my eyes to find Watson hovering over my bed, gently nudging me awake.

"Holmes. Today, I will familiarize you with the sight and smell of dead bodies."

"Oh God." I pulled the covers over my head. "This is not polite conversation for a Sunday morning, Watson."

"You know this is necessary, Holmes. A detective must be able to examine a crime scene without fainting or vomiting. I've managed to bribe the morgue attendants to allow us in today if we arrive early in the morning."

After much grumbling and cursing, I was bundled up and off we went to the morgue.

"The body we'll be examining today is male, age 50, died of pneumonia," explained Watson as we walked into the room. The smell was pungent and became worse the closer I approached, until I had no choice but to block my nose with my hands. "Urgh. This is horrible!"

"Give yourself time and let me know when you're ready."

"Ready?" I shuddered and took a deep breath, before immediately regretting that decision. "Oh God. All right. Yes. As ready as I'll ever be, you sadistic little man."

"Excellent. Let's start with the riding crop."

What happened next, I could not be sure. My eyes were open one moment, and then everything was dark. Mrs. Hudson later told me that I fainted, and had to be carried back to Baker Street by Watson himself. What followed were weeks of arguments and attempts to force me back to the morgue, but through persistence, I bargained him down to allowing me to view corpses from a distance if ever forced to go near them at a crime scene, while he would give me his medical opinion on the death.

This arrangement was put to the test very quickly, when Scotland Yard contacted us about a murder of one Enoch J. Drebber at a house on Lauriston Gardens.

"Please don't faint this time, Holmes," said Watson with a hint of desperation as we rode towards the scene of crime. "This is the first time you'll be meeting Inspector Lestrade and Inspector Gregson face-to-face. First impressions matter!"

"Oh, I don't know, Watson. Will Inspector Lestrade ask me to whip the dead body with a riding crop?"

"I honestly don't see why that in particular set you off. There would have been no blood, I didn't ask you to take out his internal organs. It would have just been bruising on the skin."

I shuddered again at the memory. "Please stop talking, Watson. And allow me to get into character in peace."

"Very well," said Watson as we disembarked in a hundred or so yards from our destination. He then pulled out a notepad, and began to scribble notes as he scrutinized everything from the railings to the pavements and even the grass. By the time we arrived, Watson already had a page full of near-illegible scribblings for me to read and memorize.

After the obligatory greetings, I held my head up high and launched into the first of the questions Watson had written down.

"Before I enter, I must ask you both a question, Inspectors: Do either of you own a pet crab? And were there words written on the body?"

"Er. No, sir, Mr. Holmes. No crabs, and no words that we could see on the body. What is this about?" Gregson was scratching his head, while Lestrade looked deeply skeptical.

I gave them my best enigmatic smile. "I will let you gentlemen know once I have examined the crime scene and Dr. Watson reports back to me on the dead body."

Once inside, I was roughly pulled aside.

"What are you doing, you madman?"

"Don't ask me. I was just reading _your_ lines."

"You are meant to ask them if they had arrived in cabs, and whether there was a wound on the body!"

"Oh, is that what the questions were meant to be? Your handwriting is truly atrocious when you aren't sitting at a desk."

"You doddering fool! Ask me if you're unsure next time."

"Oh blame me, why don't you! Learn to write like a proper gentleman next time!"

With both of us fuming, I stood off to the side, appearing deep in thought, while Watson examined the body and the rest of the room. Before long, we were interrupted by a loud exclamation from Lestrade.

"Mr. Holmes! How did you know? You were off by a bit, but there _is_ a word. Look here, on the wall!"

We rushed to his side, where a piece of wallpaper had peeled off to reveal the letters "RACHE."

"Aha! I knew it had to be somewhere, if not on the body!" I shot Watson a smug look. For his part, he said nothing except to pass me another note, more neatly written this time, with his deductions.

"What do you suppose it means?" asked Gregson.

"Well, that's easy, isn't it? It's the German word for 'Revenge'!" I replied, eager to show off my command of languages.

"My theory is that a woman named Rachel will be involved in this. Perhaps he had a rivalry with this Stangerson fellow, whose letters are in his possession," said Lestrade.

Gregson looked between Lestrade and I, before asking: "So, you're saying the killer is German?"

Watson coughed loudly and kicked me in the shins, shaking his head. "Of course not. I was being sarcastic. Lestrade is right. We are looking for a woman named Rachel."

Watson kicked me again, harder this time.

I forced out a laugh. "Actually, ignore me! Just a bit of jest between detectives! No, what I mean to say is that you discovered the clue, so you are free to do with it what you will. I would hate to rob you of your credit."

"Isn't there anything you can to share with us, Mr. Holmes?" asked Gregson.

Bolstered by the unexpected coincidence and the fact that my new script no longer resembled undecipherable hieroglyphs, I easily launched into the rest of the speech. "The victim was murdered by poisoning. The murderer you seek is a fiend six feet tall! His complexion is florid, fueled by his sociopathic rage, which likely stems from insecurity over the size of his feet. He wears square toed boots and he smokes Trichinopoly cigars."

"Excellent. If there is nothing else to examine here, Holmes and I will be returning to Baker Street!" said Watson, pushing me out of the door.

Lestrade nodded and gestured for the body to be taken away. As they lifted the body up, a ring fell out onto the ground.

"More evidence! That lends credence to my Rachel theory," said Lestrade.

"Make of it what you will, detective. I have other leads to follow!"

My exist was less dignified than I would have liked, what with Watson forcibly dragging me away, but I do believe I made a memorable first impression.


	6. Interlude

"What the devil are you laughing about, Watson?"

"You. Fainting at the morgue. Still funny, even after all these years. In fact, any time you fall over like a log is a memory for me to cherish."

"To hell with you, you heartless bastard. Keep reading! The next part is where I outsmart you."

"I'm sorry, my memory fails me. Is that the part where your pet crab theory becomes true?"

"All right. That was a bit ridiculous. But not everything I said was wrong! I still don't understand why you refuted my theory about the word 'Rache.' I was right about it being German for revenge."

"True, but the killer was not German."

"Bah, technicalities. You just didn't want to admit to being outsmarted by an actor!"

"If that helps you sleep at night, Holmes."

"It does. As does the thought of you being completely taken in by that actor dressed as an old woman. Getting to be a trend, isn't it?"

"At least I wasn't the one hiding under the table in fear of said old woman."

"Of course. You reserve that only for giant rats of Sumatra. And by giant, I mean rats barely the size of my fist. Did that thing even count as a rat? It was more like a mouse, it seemed to me."

"For your information, I wasn't hiding _under_ a table. I was strategically positioning myself on top of one to better defeat my enemy."

"I still say the strategic positioning of my foot on top of its head was a better move."

"Because I am the bigger man, I will concede that point to you," said Watson. He looked at Holmes thoughtfully. "Surely I wasn't so terrible to you on our first meeting, was I?"

"You most certainly were, Watson," answered Holmes cheerfully. "I had never been so insulted in my life, and I've read every review from every nasty critic in town."

"Has there ever been a meeting that started off so badly?"

Holmes shook his head. "Honestly, how I haven't managed to end up a corpse in some elaborately staged closed-room murder that would go unsolved for centuries is still a surprise to me."

Watson laughed. "I would make quite a spectacular criminal. Best be careful not to rouse my anger, Holmes."


	7. The Old Woman and the Ring

"That went well, if I do say so myself," I remarked as we departed to question the constable who found the body.

"You would be the only one to say so," replied Watson. "Now tell me, Holmes, how do you feel about Wilma Norman-Neruda?"

"Haven't the faintest clue who that is."

"Brilliant. You'll enjoy her violin concert tonight, then."

"Oh. Is the case closed or are giving me an early reward?"

"I have already settled the matter of how and why this murder was committed. And by tonight, I hope to have the answer as to the identity of the murderer, and within the day, his whereabouts as well."

"Watson, you are putting me on! I have been with you every step of the way, and I cannot see how you came to any of your conclusions. I think you're bluffing."

"Really? Was the make of his shoes and the height of the killer not obvious to you from the treads in the soil leading to the house? Nor his motives, given the ring, the lack of items taken from the body, and the method of murder? I suppose next you'll tell me that the marks on the road showing a horse and carriage told you nothing about the way the killer and his victim arrived either. And here you are, a master of deduction and an experienced man in the way of forensic analysis."

I suspected that he was being sarcastic. Still, I didn't care enough for his methods back then to pursue the matter further and I allowed him to usher me out of his way. "Oh, have it your way. "

"Good. I have no more time to waste. Enjoy your concert, while I finish up the work we have here."

And so it was that Watson and I parted ways that day, with neither of us returning until very late in the evening. He, for reasons unknown to me, and I for reasons well known to both of us. In what would become one of his annoying sadistic habits, he stopped me right before I was about to turn in, and said to me: "See to it that you are at home tomorrow evening. I expect the killer may pay us a visit. I placed an ad for the missing ring found at the crime scene."

I slept fitfully and spent most of the next day fortifying my courage with wine. When I came home, I was greeted with the sight of Watson with two revolvers laid out on our dinner table.

"Are you handy with a gun, Holmes?"

"Not at all," I replied.

"Try not to shoot yourself, then," he said as he handed me one of the revolvers. "This is only meant for your defense in the worst case scenario. As much as possible, let me deal with the killer."

"Don't worry, I intend to."

When our visitor arrived, I was already securely hidden under the table. With a spring in his steps, Watson rushed to anwer the door. So, when he returned with a frail old woman instead of the expected fearsome killer, I consoled my wounded pride with the knowledge that he was surely more disappointed than I was. With as much dignity as I could muster, I crawled out from underneath the table and made a great showing of brushing the dust off the ring we were using as a decoy.

She gasped. "That's my Sally's ring!"

Then, it was my turn to frown. There was something familiar about her the moment she appeared and it hit me at once. Though much rarer now, it was still not completely unheard of to have men perform the role of women in a play. The exaggerated but precise control in her curtsey, the careful breath control and obvious affectation in her voice - it all pointed one thing: this was someone with theatrical training.

I looked to Watson to see if he followed the same train of thought and was gratified to see that he was also suspicious. He nodded at me in acknowledgement before turning back to the old woman. "May I ask what your address is?"

I watched as Watson attempted to trap the woman with her answers, while she evaded and countered skillfully. Finally, he seemed satisfied and handed the ring over to her.

"Watson! She is a fraud!"

"I know, Holmes! I am the real detective here, in case you had forgotten." He rushed to his rooms and returned with a longcoat. "I will follow her and see if she will lead me to her accomplice."

And with that, he was gone. I can't recall how long I waited for him, only that I dozed into sleep by the time he returned.

"Watson!" I jumped up and knocked over my chair. "Have you caught the killer? Was he the one dressed as the old woman or was he simply an accomplice?"

He looked at me sharply. "How did you know that the old woman was a younger man dressed up?"

"Actors always recognize one of our own, Watson. Don't tell me I saw something you didn't?"

Watson suddenly avoided my eyes and cleared his throat. "You will never breathe a word of this to Scotland Yard. Be a good man, Holmes, and go to sleep. I will think more on this development."


	8. The Arrest

In the early days of our acquaintance, Watson was a ill-tempered little man even at the best of times, especially to me. With his unexpected defeat at the hands of the killer's accomplice, he sunk into what I would eventually term one of his black moods. Mournful melodies wrenched from his violin drifted through the flat, filling me with a strange sense of guilt, as though I should offer whatever feeble help or comfort I could. Not that I owed the man anything beyond services rendered, or that he would want anything I could offer.

Nevertheless, it was a relief to find him in slightly better spirits the next day.

"All may not be lost yet, Holmes. I had hoped to apprehend the killer last night, but Wiggins and his network may yet help recover from the blunder I committed."

"That's excellent news, Watson!" Selfishly, I rejoiced at the prospect of a proper night's sleep if it was just a matter of waiting for the solution of the crime.

"Ah, but here is an interesting development," said Watson suddenly as he peeked out the window. "I do believe we are to receive Inspector Gregson as a visitor this morning."

"Wonderful. What do I say to him?"

"I give you the same advice I always do: say as little as you can."

"It's a good thing I am experienced in making the most of nonverbal performances with few lines."

"Try to communicate as little as you can nonverbally as well."

At that moment, Gregson bounded up the stairs and barged through the door. "I've solved the case!"

Both Watson and I froze. For all our differences, I was still gracious enough to admit that Watson was a skilled detective, far moreso than either Gregson or Lestrade. It seemed inconceivable that he was beaten to the punch by either of them.

"And who may I ask was the culprit?" asked Watson.

"Arthur Charpentier, the son of the victim's landlady," announced Gregson. Watson relaxed with visible relief, which I took as a sign that poor Gregson was on the completely wrong track.

I patted him amiably on the back. "There there, old fellow. You are, of course, hopelessly incorrect, but it was a good effort!"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes," spluttered Gregson. "I'm certain I have the right man! Do you remember the hat that was left next to the body?"

"Nnn--" Watson kicked me under the table before I could finish. I briefly consider adding padding to my trouser legs, fashion sense be damned.

"Of course he does. Holmes told me to write down the information. John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road."

"Oh. Well. I tracked down the seller of the hat and obtained the victim'ss address from him. It turns out that he was kicked out for daring to embrace the landlady's daughter. After some further questioning, she admitted that she had a son with a violent temperament who found out about the injustice. So I've arrested him on suspicion of murder."

I suddenly found myself wavering.

"You say that he was a hot-headed gentleman, Gregson?" asked Watson, kicking me again before I could speak. I glowered at him.

"Yes."

"Wouldn't it be more likely that he used his fists, or perhaps a weapon, rather than poison? This murder is far more of a premeditated affair, and I fear you have the wrong man."

"Meaning no offense, Dr. Watson, but you should probably leave logic and psychology to the professionals."

I stifled my laughter at the look on Watson's face. "Be kind to poor Watson. He's a simple man, but his conclusion is not entirely unfounded, as it was based on my own deductions. I mean, let's face it. How could possibly have reached such an insight without my brilliance?"

"Is that so?" Gregson seemed uncertain now.

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! Inspector Lestrade is here to see you!" announced Mrs. Hudson.

Gregson frowned. "You don't suppose Lestrade found the criminal, do you?"

"Possible, but unlikely," I said with confidence. My prediction was confirmed when Lestrade arrived with sombre expression.

"His secretary, Mr. Stangerson was found dead this morning. Killed the same way, with the word 'RACHE' written above his body." He sat down with a heavy sigh. "So much for my theory."

"And this, gentlemen, is why you should have listened to me from the start."

"This is no time for games, Mr. Holmes! If you have the killer, then for God's sakes, tell us!" exclaimed Lestrade.

I looked at Watson for help, but he was resolutely avoiding my eyes and feigning interest in the morning newspaper.

"Er. Well. It's a complicated matter, you see. I have the killer's name, but I cannot tell you his identity or he would surely escape before we are able to find him. Not to worry! I've hired the best of the best to seek him out."

As if on cue, Wiggins entered the room, somehow managing to look shabbier than usual and stinking to high heaven. "Good morning Dr. Watson." He gave me a contemptuous look. "Mr. Holmes."

"Tell me this isn't who you've employed to look for the killer," said Lestrade.

I hemmed and hawed.

"I've got the cab you called for, Dr. Watson."

Watson jumped up. "Excellent! Would you fetch the cabby, please? I'll need some help carrying the boxes downstairs."

"What are you going on about, Watson?"

He looked at me calmly. "Just a trip out of town, Holmes. Nothing to concern yourself with. I'm sure you're more than capable of handling the rest of this case on your own."

Now, dear reader, you must understand that I have always been an upstanding citizen. I had precious little experience tangling with Scotland Yard, and even less experience with incurring the wrath of two Inspectors of the Yard. So, faced with panic at the prospect of being jailed for withholding information about a murderer and anger at Watson's petty revenge, I reacted as any reasonable person under extreme duress would. I fainted.

Later, when Mrs. Hudson was feeding me soup for my recovery, I learned that Watson arrested the cabby, Jefferson Hope, for the murder of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson. In hindsight, it was terribly obvious. Drebber and his killer arrived at the house on Lauriston Gardens by cab, yet if his killer had been anyone but the cabby himself, how could he have gotten away with the murder? As for the name of the killer, Watson obtained that by wiring Drebber's former employer and asking for old rivals in love. The ring, which the killer risked everything for, gave us the final clue to his motives, which was to avenge his lost love.

So ends the story of Jefferson Hope's brutal revenge on the men who wronged him, a tale with as bloody an end as a beginning...


	9. Epilogue

Watson carefully lifted his eyes from the book and was immediately met with Holmes' eager face. He held up a hand. "No, Holmes, I'm not quite finished reading it yet. As I've been repeatedly saying for the past hour."

"Sorry, old boy, but you can't fool me as easily as you used to. I know for a fact that you've been flipping back and forth between the last two pages for at least the past ten minutes."

Watson was beginning to regret encouraging Holmes to improve his observation skills. He put the book down. "Well. It was. Interesting."

"Good interesting or bad interesting?"

"Something interesting can never be bad, my dear Holmes."

Watson plastered a smile on his face as Holmes fixed him with a skeptical gaze. "You're hiding something from me, Watson."

"I would do no such thing."

"You're doing it right now. It's absolutely fine if you think it was awful."

Watson resisted the urge to roll his eyes at how obvious Holmes' expression made it that it certainly would _not_ fine if he said it was awful. In his most diplomatic tone, he said: "It wasn't _awful_ , per se. I was rather pleasantly surprised by how many of my deductions you remembered. The case itself was presented honestly, if not in a flattering manner to either of us. You do have a tendency towards exaggeration and sensationalism, however."

"Still. That's good, then? Overall?"

"Yes. Very good."

"You're still hiding something from me!" accused Holmes. "I'm not a child. I can take it."

"I really was being honest about the re-telling of the case. It's just..." Watson paused. "Was it truly necessary to devote the entire second half of the book to Mormons?"


End file.
